


This is Not an Apocalypse

by StopTalkingAtMe



Category: Death in Paradise, Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Gen, Locked Room Mystery, Swearing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombie-related violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 03:16:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20202844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StopTalkingAtMe/pseuds/StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: A dead man in a room full of corpses, some of which are still walking around. Which is frankly irritating, because as far as DI Richard Poole is concerned the dead have a moral prerogative to stay dead. Still, having an impossible murder to solve makes a nice change from the minor zombie-related global crisis that everyone but him seems to insist on calling the apocalypse, and at least he has the help of the last remaining employee of the NSA to help him solve it. Even if the lucky bastard is stuck out in the Arctic.





	This is Not an Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> The crossover that literally no one asked for but which I felt compelled to write anyway for reasons that remain inexplicable even to me. 
> 
> The zombie turn happened at some point during season 2 of Death in Paradise, and before the events in the novel The Killing of Polly Carter, and is canon divergent from that point on. This is set at some time midway through season 1 of Z Nation. If you could consider the canon dates for both shows handwaved, I'd really appreciate it. 
> 
> I don't know where the hell this came from, but it was fun to write. As always, feedback and constructive criticism is appreciated.

**Chapter One**

Lisa Black hesitated at the door that opened onto the bar’s courtyard, fighting the rising tidal wave of panic threatening to swamp her. What on earth did she think she was doing? She was a terrible liar, always had been. How could she ever have thought she would be able to go through with this?

Outside she could hear Emma's voice, charged with sarcasm as she related a joke. Marcus chuckled in response, but Lisa could tell that he either wasn't finding the joke all that funny or he hadn't really been listening in the first place. Either could be true with Marcus.

She glanced down at the arm caught up in a sling, wondering how long it would take for a broken wrist to heal enough for the others to expect her to start fighting again. Not long, she thought, but maybe it’d be just enough to buy her a little time, to figure out just what on earth she was going to do. It wasn't a decision she was looking forward to. In fact it felt like tearing a rotten tooth from her head; either way it was going to hurt, and the longer she left it, the worse the pain was going to be.

_Just like this. What a fucking mess._

Her gaze flicked towards the clock above the door that led through to the lodge’s reception, but it had long run out of batteries. She sighed, drew in a deep breath and walked outside. The pool had been empty for a long time and its once gleaming turquoise tiles were now stained with mildew and grime. It unnerved her how quickly the once luxury lodge – an eco-resort nestled at the edge of the volcanic hills – was being lost to the jungle. Without a team of gardeners to take care of the landscaping, the plants seemed to be taking over. Still, she supposed, better the plants than the dead.

Marcus was making tea, pouring water that had been boiled that morning into a mug. He glanced up, eyed her for a moment or two, then nodded. He was a bronzed slab of lean muscle in combat pants and a tight t-shirt that revealed his impressive biceps and the artful monochrome tattoo of a Chinese dragon that sheathed his left arm.

Emma was sitting down, drinking a cup of tea of her own. She’d gone silent now at Lisa’s arrival, her shoulders tensed up.

No wonder, really, after the argument they'd had last night. Lisa was already starting to regret some of the things she'd said, but Emma had given as good as she'd got. In fact, she'd been much more vicious, and she had not looked impressed when Gordon had stuck up for his little sister. _Time to make amends, _Lisa thought, although frankly making amends was probably one of the last things she wanted to do. Still, it wasn't like she had much choice.

"Morning, guys," Lisa said.

Marcus waggled the thermos at her. "Hey, kid. Want some tea? Or coffee? I might be able to chip some granules out of that jar of instant shit you like."

"If you’re talking, it means you’re not chipping," she shot back, and saw his lips twitch back. Not quite a smile, but it would have to do. Emma, meanwhile, had pointedly ignored her. Marcus glanced into the jar of Gold Blend, grimaced, and then started to grind away at the solidified block of instant coffee granules with the tip of his hunting knife.

Lisa sank down into a chair, and dropped her head back to stare up at the hotel, trying to imagine it in better times. Back in the days when she would have given her eye teeth to stay in a place like this. Back before the end of the world, when their table would have been attended by impeccably-attired waiters, the sort who seemed to glide in and out on castors to replenish food and drink. Back before the sun beds around the pool had been smashed up for firewood or used in makeshift barricades against the hordes of the rampaging dead.

Emma was still ignoring her. Lisa swallowed, because it looked like she was going to have to make the first move. Like ripping off a plaster, she thought, only much more painful. More like hot wax and a Brazilian. "Hi, Em."

She was rewarded with a taut, unfriendly smile. "Lisa."

"Look, I really am sorry about last night." She paused on the off-chance of an apology in return, although she should have known she'd never get one. Not from Emma. Not after Gordon had got involved. "It's like Gordon said, we don't have to make the decision right away. We've only just got here and it's not like we’re anywhere near ready--"

"Maybe if we weren’t a person down," Emma said, glaring pointedly at Lisa’s arm.

"Quit it, you two." Marcus set a coffee in front of Lisa. It was a murky shade of brown and she didn’t need to sip it to know it was too weak, and would taste like slightly coffee-flavoured dishwater. "Can we go one goddamned day without a catfight?" Emma grimaced, bringing her mug of tea up to her lips. Her jaw was tight.

"I take it Gordon’s been talking to you then?" Emma said. "Did he tell you to play nice?"

"No, of course not." Lisa flushed, sipping her coffee. It was far too weak. "Where is he anyway?"

Emma gave a shrug, her mouth twisting in a way that strongly implied she didn’t believe a word Lisa said.

There was a crackle of sound from the hand-held radio clipped to Marcus’s belt, a splintered voice broken up by static. Marcus unclipped it. "Did not copy. Come again?"

"..._ombies...trapped in...room_..."

Lisa shot Emma a look. "That sounded like..."

"Gordon," Emma said, sitting up. "It was Gordon. What the hell's he up to?"

And Marcus, who had been staring at the radio with a strange expression on his face, said grimly, "The clifftop lodge."

"He wouldn't do that," Lisa said. "Not on his own. He's not an idiot." They both stared at her, as if she'd just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"It's _exactly_ the sort of thing Gordon would do," Marcus said. Lisa shivered, because his face was contorted with something that looked very much like rage. _He hates Gordon_, she thought. _He really, really does. _She'd known the two men clashed sometimes, but she'd never realised quite how deep that rivalry ran. Because she’d never let herself think too hard about it.

Meanwhile Emma was shaking her head. She’d blanched. "He wouldn't," she said, and then she grabbed the radio from Marcus and depressed the talk button. "What the fuck are you doing? Over." No reply. Only the crackling of static. Marcus was shaking his head, looking grim. "Gordon! Answer me, you stubborn bastard."

"Screw this," Marcus said, "Come on."Then Marcus and Emma were off and running. Lisa closed her eyes, sinking back into the chair, shaking.

_I can't do this_, she thought. _I can't. This is __madness__._

But she had to. She forced herself out of the seat and ran after them as fast as she could, circling around the emptied pool and along the paths that wound through the resort, bordered on all sides by lush vegetation, heavily scented tropical flowers, discreet posters advertising full body chocolate mud wraps and hot stone massages. The clifftop lodge was perched on the very edge of the dark volcanic cliffs that overlooked the resort’s private beach, and was one of the few buildings they hadn’t yet cleared of the dead.

Marcus and Emma were outside, and Marcus was trying to break the door down. "Is it Gordon? Is he in there?"

"There must be another way in," Emma said, speaking over her.

Marcus shook his head. From inside, they could hear the groan of a zombie, and he slammed his shoulder against the door, then fell away, shaking his head. "Windows are all boarded up. I checked the fucking place myself when we got here. Made sure it was secure, that they couldn’t--"

Something slammed into the door from the other side. Inside they heard Gordon bellowing something incomprehensible.

"Get this fucking door open!" Emma screamed. "Shoot out the lock!"

"It doesn’t work like that. You want to be picking bits of metal out of your face?"

"The key card," Emma said. She whirled on her heel and fled down the path, vanishing around the corner.

Marcus hammered on the door. "Gordon? Gordon, are you there? Open the goddamn--"

He was interrupted by the sound of a scream. A wrenching howl of agony that sent a shudder of pure horror tearing through Lisa. She froze, meeting Marcus's horrified glance as the scream trailed off into wrenching sobs. "He just got bitten," she whispered.

"You don't know that!" Marcus swore and slammed his fist into the door.

From the other side of the door there came a gunshot. Lisa flinched, her eyes filling with tears, and then Emma was sprinting back, her eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?"

"Just get the damn door open," Marcus said, flexing his hand around the hilt of the machete.

The lodge had gone horribly silent. Emma slid the key card into the lock, and the light flashed green. Not much else working these days, but the locks at least were battery-powered. She twisted the handle, and pushed against the door. "It won't open," she said.

Marcus shoved her out of the way none too gently, and shoved the door. This time it shifted. "There's something wedged up behind it," he said. He braced his hands against the door and heaved, edging it open inch by inch. Emma joined him, shooting a contemptuous look at Lisa as she did so, then her contempt was forgotten and they stared in horror at the carnage inside. Even standing where she was, Lisa could smell the rot.

Marcus covered the lower half of his face with a choking groan. "Oh Christ... That stinks."

Emma was crying openly now. "Is Gordon..."

Lisa edged forward, her heart pounding so rapidly she felt like she was going to faint. Still she forced herself to look into the room beyond where nothing seemed to move, living or dead. Inside the room was a slaughterhouse. Her gaze moved over the dead zombies to the her brother’s corpse, and the bullet wound in his temple . "Oh God."

As she started inside, Marcus caught hold of her. "Wait." He drew his machete, and pushed past her into the room, circling around the bodies of the dead, ready in case any of them moved. None of them did, and when he reached Gordon, and kicked at the piked body of the zombie that must have bitten him, she couldn’t stop herself. She stumbled inside, and dropped to her knees beside her brother’s body. It had bitten him on his arm, the wound ragged and chewed.

Marcus touched her shoulder, then moved towards the French windows that led out onto the verandah. "Locked." He turned back, frowning. "How could Gordon let a Z as weak as that bite him?"

Lisa looked at it, blinking her tears away and saw in a moment what he meant. The zombie was an old one, in an advanced state of decay, its face little more than a gaunt skull, its eyes sunken, lips peeled back to reveal its teeth and blackened gums. It looked like a strip of jerky, like it had been left out in the sun too long.

"Maybe… Maybe it took him by surprise." Her voice sounded small and impossibly far away. She started to push herself to her feet. "No, hang on, this is all wrong. He’s--"

Emma screamed.

Lisa twisted around, saw one of the other zombies had lurched to its feet and was coming for her. In terror she flung herself backwards, unable to stop herself from falling because of her broken wrist. She landed badly, with a high cry of pain, and in moments the zombie was on her, pinning her to the ground, tearing at her hair, teeth bared as it lunged towards her exposed throat.

_I'm going to die, _ she thought, desperately. _Oh god oh god oh god._

And then Marcus was there, his face grim, and brought the machete down, hacking deep into the zombie's skull. The blade wedged in bone, and he set his boot against the zombie’s shoulder, working the machete free.

"You okay?"

She lay still, staring up at the ceiling, the sleek blades of the ceiling fan. "That," she said numbly, "is probably the stupidest question anyone has ever asked me."

*** * ***

It was hot. _Really_ hot. So hot that the ceiling fan turning lazy circles in the air seemed to be stirring the heat around, rather than having any actual cooling effect on the room.

Detective Inspector Richard Poole dropped his head back and glared hard at the fan, as if by doing so he could intimidate it into doing its job properly. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck and ran down his spine to join its fellows in the small of his back. He hadn't had the chance to change his clothes in over a week now. Or take a shower. His woollen M&S suit, his shirt, even his underwear – all were perpetually damp and sticky. It felt like the jungle, always eager to encroach on civilisation, was now encroaching on the inside of his boxer shorts.

Back before things had started to go wrong, he'd almost begun to begrudgingly accept his life here on Saint-Marie, but right at that moment, he would have done anything – _anything_ – to be back in England again. In the cold and damp and wet, feeling the soft blissful drizzle of rain against his skin.

Only there wasn't an England any more, was there? Not really. No more government, no more pubs, no more cricket, no more beer. _All_ of that was gone, and Richard was stuck on this godforsaken hellhole of a paradise island for the rest of his natural life.

And, on top of all of that, there was a zombie in his bedroom.

Well, he called it his bedroom. Technically it was one of the police station's two holding cells. He called it his bedroom in order to maintain a sense of normalcy. As if there could ever be anything normal about sleeping in a fortified police station with no air conditioning or running water, and with Officer Dwayne Myers as a housemate, encouraging the American idiot on the radio to play terrible music and generally contriving to make Richard's life just that little bit more nightmarish than it already was.

It was almost enough to make him miss the lizard.

Unsurprisingly, the zombie was Dwayne's fault. He'd picked up a drunk from the streets and locked him in the cells for his own protection. Only at some point overnight, the man had had a heart attack and now he was a zombie. A _thing_. A dead man walking, in unnecessarily tight swimming trunks and a lurid Hawaiian shirt.

Dwayne, meanwhile, had made himself scarce, spending the night with one of his many female friends. A bit of a relief admittedly, since the alternative – Dwayne bringing one of his many female friends back to the station – was far too hideous to contemplate.

Cautiously, Richard got up and peered into the back. The zombie was still there. And still dead. He jiggled his foot impatiently, and then reached for the walkie talkie.

"Dwayne?"

It took a few goes before Dwayne finally answered, his voice groggy and clearly hungover. "Yes, Chief?"

"There’s a problem with the drunk you brought in last night."

"Hal? He's not giving you any trouble, is he?"

"Yes and no. He's... Well, he's _dead_."

"Dead?"

"As in 'not alive'."

"Are you sure, Chief?"

Richard risked another peep around the corner. "Fairly sure, yeah. His eyes are all... 'gruh'. And he's a bit-- Look, he's _definitely_ dead."

"But he's still in the cell?"

"Yes. Thankfully. So can you please get down here and kill him?"

"I'm..." There was soft laughter in the background. Clearly a woman. "I'm a bit busy here, Chief. Zombies, you know."

"Zombies?"

"Yes, Chief."

"And zombies laugh, do they?"

Dwayne sighed. "Where's Camille?" he asked, wearily.

"She's at the bar. She promised her mother she'd help strengthen the fortifications on the bar."

"Important work."

For once, Richard agreed. Camille's mother Catherine might be slightly mad and very French, but having a safe space to go and unwind helped the island's dwindling population maintain a sense of normalcy. Something sadly lacking in his own situation. "So do you think you could possibly extricate yourself from whatever situation you've managed to get yourself into and come back here to kill this zombie?" There was a long silence. Richard peeped around the corner again. A pleading note entered his voice. "Dwayne, it's eating the goat."

"I'll come as soon as I can, but Chief, we talked about this. You have to learn to kill them eventually. It's in the cell. It can't hurt you."

_Yes, _Richard thought, as he put the walkie talkie down on his desk. _But this is my favourite suit. _And he still wasn't sure when he'd be able to get back to his shack on the beach for a change of clothes. He suspected the only thing worse than walking around the Caribbean in a woollen suit drenched with sweat, would be walking around the Caribbean in a woollen suit drenched with sweat and ecrusted with copious amounts of dried blood.

Still, Dwayne was right. Richard was, after all, a British police officer. It was his responsibility – his _duty_ – to protect the public. And unfortunately that meant killing zombies.

"Right. Yes. Erm..."

He crossed to the mini-arsenal of weapons behind Dwayne's desk, and hesitated, unable to choose between a hammer or the machete. Definitely not the gun; he hated guns.

More reach on the machete. He picked it up, and swished it around a bit experimentally, wishing he didn't feel quite so much like an idiot. From the back, he heard the zombie snarling, accompanied by the sickening crunch of bones. He swallowed.

"Right then."

He could do this. He'd stood up to murderers, although admittedly with Dwayne, Fidel and Camille to back him up. All he had to do was stab it through the bars of the cell. Easy. Nothing to it.

Or he could call Camille...

_No! _He wasn't going to call Camille. Dwayne was right: he had to start doing this. He was supposed to be in charge.

Although admittedly, part of his remit as a Detective Inspector _was_ the delegation of responsibility...

_No, no, no! _He couldn't keep summoning his officers every time he had a little bit of a zombie problem. He was English, for God's sake.

He swallowed again, hefted the machete, and strode towards the cells with far more confidence than he actually felt. He wasn't going to call Camille. Or Dwayne. Or Fidel. He was going to deal with this himself.

The zombie was crouched on the ground over the carcass of the goat, too busy gnawing on its leg to notice him. Cautiously, Richard rattled on the cell door. Just in case.

Yep, definitely locked.

He could do this. Except the zombie had its back to him and he couldn't reach its head from here. Unless he went inside the cell, and that certainly wasn't going to happen.

"Excuse me? Hello?"

The zombie lifted its head and slowly turned to look at him, its jaw working reflexively. Its white eyes regarded him with contemplative malice. But what was really upsetting was the goat. Because it was watching him as well, its eyes whited over, its little hooves scraping along the concrete floor as it dragged itself towards him, bleating hungrily.

Richard suddenly felt a lot hotter and a lot sweatier.

He backed out of the cells. Maybe he _had_ better call Camille after all.

And then he heard the scream.

It was a woman, running full pelt through the street towards the police station, pursued by a group of zombies.

Bloody hell. He took a deep breath, and unbolted the door. "Up here!" She glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide with fear, and then she was hurtling up the steps and through the doorway. Richard slammed the door as the first of the zombies crashed into it, and was almost thrown backwards as the door heaved inwards, hands clawing inside.

The woman joined him against the door. Together they managed to get the latch into place, and Richard bolted it again, breathing hard. The woman fell away, bending over, gasping for breath.

"Will it hold?" she said through her gasps. Richard perked up just the tiniest bit at the sound of an English accent. He hadn't heard one of _those_ in a while.

"It's held against worse than that," he said, trying to keep his voice calm and brave and reassuring. Trying to pretend that Honoré police station was a fortress, and not the ramshackle deathtrap it would almost certainly prove to be.

"Well, thank you," she said softly, straightening up. Her hair was ash-blonde, caught up in a loose plait. She was dressed in a tank top and combat trousers which sat low on her hips, had her right arm hooked up in a sling, and she was so slight and pretty that Richard's protective instincts were starting to kick in, even despite the rather large hunting knife strapped on her belt. "I think you probably just saved my life."

"I opened a door. Hardly the heroic gesture of the year," he said, flustered and blustering.

"Even so. A lot of people might not even have done that." She held out her uninjured hand. "Lisa Black. How do you do."

"Richard Poole."

Her gaze glanced over his suit, and Richard shifted awkwardly, aware of how crumpled and sweaty he must look. The door shuddered as the zombies slammed into it again, and she flinched, edging away, a stark look of fear crossing her face before she mastered it. Again, Richard felt that instinctive urge to protect her. She glanced towards him with a rueful grimace. "I'm really not cut out for this zombie-hunting malarkey."

"You're a zombie-hunter?"

"Sort of. That was really--" The zombie in the cells groaned and she spun around in a panic. "Is there another way in?"

"Oh no, don't worry. There's a zombie locked in one of the cells."

She raised her eyebrows, but she was still clearly shaky. "What crime did he commit? Loitering with intent to shamble?" She glanced back at the door. "Are you sure they can't get in?"

"I'm certain," he lied, reaching for his walkie talkie. He radioed in to Dwayne again. "That little zombie problem we talked about earlier? Well, it's become a rather larger zombie problem."

"Hal hasn't escaped, has he, Chief?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. But I'm afraid we're under siege. Better call Fidel."

"Roger that, Chief."

"There, you see?" Richard said to the woman. "We'll soon get you to where you want to go in no time at all."

She looked at him blankly. "Where I want to go? Sorry, but I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding. I was heading _here_."

"Here?"

"To the police station. You're a police officer, aren't you?"

He used to be. In another life. "Well, yes, I am. I mean I _was,_ but..."

She took a breath, "Please," she said. "I know this is mad and we're way past all of this, with the zombies and everything, but..." She trailed off, her shoulders sagging, her eyes filling with tears. "Oh, what's the use?"

Instinctively, Richard reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, glanced at the sweaty, bloodstained rag he’d pulled out and thought better of it. Instead he ushered her into a chair. "Sit down," he said. "Tell me what's wrong."

She nodded, and drew in a shaky breath. "It's my brother," she whispered. And then she said the best thing Richard had heard in months. "I think he's been murdered."


End file.
